Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which kept the flies away from the butter and the daddy-long-legs away from the tight's drawer.
I looked at Tommy my cat carving a likeness of Tom Elliott out of wood and said,
"Tommy, why this great love and devotion,some might say, obsession with Fermanagh's finest, Tom Elliott?"
Tommy put his knife down, his face a picture of rumination and replied,
"Tom Elliott, is not, never has been, or never will be-SCUM! I find Tom Elliott to be strong, stable, capable and in a certain light, quite handsome. Tom Elliott is no excitable flibbertigibbet. Tom Elliott has a sound foundation. Tom Elliott is not built on shifting sand. Tom knows the price of a bullock and the value of good fertiliser. Tom knows if you look after the pennies, the pounds will look after themselves. Tom Elliott thinks long and hard before he buys a gansey. Tom Elliott's favourite colour is a dull, drab grey! Tom Elliott is a straight shooter: He shoots from the mouth and thinks about it afterwards. That's why I like, perhaps, even love, Tom Elliott."
I looked on sadly as little Tommy picked up his Tom Elliott drawing and went out whistlng.
"Always look on the bright side of life!"
I glared towards Fermanagh and yelled,
"Tom Elliott, you silver-tongued Svengali,you may have fooled Tommy the cat but you don't fool me!"
When I saw the strolling policeman I climbed out of the gutter, adjusted my clothing and said,
"Good evening officer."
"Hello turnip head," replied the policeman.
That's what I missed when the troubles were on, the cheerful banter with the local bobby on the beat.
I glanced at the notches on his baton and said,
"How are all the old Bills back at the station?"
"Fine," said the copper. "When I left everyone was stuffing their faces with chips and bullying the Culchie from Co Tyrone."
"And little Matt?" I said. "Is little Matt Baggott settling in?"
"The Governor is settling in well," said the blue bottle. "He now knows that a wee beg, is a wee bag and a puff at a fag is not a criminal offence."
"Splendito!" I yelled.
I looked all around, put my finger to my nose and whispered,
"When do you think we'll have a Northern Ireland chief constable?"
The policeman tested his baton on my head and said,
"When apples grow on an ivy tree."
"As soon as that!" I screamed, as I sank back into the gutter.
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
Monday, 9 May 2011
Election Fever
Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which helped to keep people grounded as election fever swept through Ulster like a gorse fire.Many people, overcome with election fever threw off their clothes, painted their face with woad and drove the wrong way around round-a-bouts yelling, "Tom Elliott is the personification of silver-tongued charisma!"
Tommy my cat took another handful of Valium and yelled, "Nigel Dodds, Margaret Richie, David Ford, Edwin Poots, Jim Allister, old uncle Tom Elliott and all, hit me with your rhythm stick! Hit me! Hit me! Hit MEEEEEEEEE!"
"GONE and never called me mother!" I screamed, as the orphaned Tasmanian devil I had been fostering leaped over the half door and sprinted off towards the Falls Road.
"You should have checked its religion!" yelled Tommy.
"It's plain to see you were fobbed off with a catholic Tasmanian devil, who is sitting now downing pints in the Felons' club."
"I should have known," I sobbed. "He had a photograph of Celtic football club in his cardboard box."
"Next time," said Tommy, "get an orange dodo, very loyal and with a little patience will happily whistle, "God Save the Queen."
"That's my kind of dodo!" I yelled, as I put on a coat of paint and headed for a certain place.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Charlie Witherspoon.I am standing in Liam O'Flattery's soiled and second-hand sock shop. This is the beating heart of the city. From here I can hear the clish-clash of language from cliques of clueless tourists.
THE AMERICANS. "Gee Hank, I never knew Belfast was so small. One cruise missile would take out the entire city."
THE JAPANESE. "Ah so! Velly ancient civilisation. Eat soda bread and pray to big God Titanic."
THE RUSSIANS. "Plenty vodka, plenty, how's your pappa."
CO TYRONE. "Get back Willie John, get back! That big motor nearly run you over, so it did."
A strolling monster appears. All ears hark.
(Cue Tubby Nolan)
"I have often walked down this street before.
But the pavements never crumbled beneath my feet before."
THE AMERICANS. "Gee Ethel, that is BIG! We ain't got nothing at home like THAT!"
THE JAPANESE. "Ah so! Big sumo Godzilla!"
THE RUSSIANS. "Run! It's a Russian bear!"
CO TYRONE. "Stand it Willie John. That boy would eat you as sure as my name is Barney Francie McSpalter."
And so we leave Belfast and go home to curl up like a foetus and cry, cry, cry.
And the tears I cried for that Tubby
Would flood you big river
So I'm gonna sit down here until I die!"
It's a strange fact, but dead men are very good singers!
Great shows which helped to keep people grounded as election fever swept through Ulster like a gorse fire.Many people, overcome with election fever threw off their clothes, painted their face with woad and drove the wrong way around round-a-bouts yelling, "Tom Elliott is the personification of silver-tongued charisma!"
Tommy my cat took another handful of Valium and yelled, "Nigel Dodds, Margaret Richie, David Ford, Edwin Poots, Jim Allister, old uncle Tom Elliott and all, hit me with your rhythm stick! Hit me! Hit me! Hit MEEEEEEEEE!"
"GONE and never called me mother!" I screamed, as the orphaned Tasmanian devil I had been fostering leaped over the half door and sprinted off towards the Falls Road.
"You should have checked its religion!" yelled Tommy.
"It's plain to see you were fobbed off with a catholic Tasmanian devil, who is sitting now downing pints in the Felons' club."
"I should have known," I sobbed. "He had a photograph of Celtic football club in his cardboard box."
"Next time," said Tommy, "get an orange dodo, very loyal and with a little patience will happily whistle, "God Save the Queen."
"That's my kind of dodo!" I yelled, as I put on a coat of paint and headed for a certain place.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Charlie Witherspoon.I am standing in Liam O'Flattery's soiled and second-hand sock shop. This is the beating heart of the city. From here I can hear the clish-clash of language from cliques of clueless tourists.
THE AMERICANS. "Gee Hank, I never knew Belfast was so small. One cruise missile would take out the entire city."
THE JAPANESE. "Ah so! Velly ancient civilisation. Eat soda bread and pray to big God Titanic."
THE RUSSIANS. "Plenty vodka, plenty, how's your pappa."
CO TYRONE. "Get back Willie John, get back! That big motor nearly run you over, so it did."
A strolling monster appears. All ears hark.
(Cue Tubby Nolan)
"I have often walked down this street before.
But the pavements never crumbled beneath my feet before."
THE AMERICANS. "Gee Ethel, that is BIG! We ain't got nothing at home like THAT!"
THE JAPANESE. "Ah so! Big sumo Godzilla!"
THE RUSSIANS. "Run! It's a Russian bear!"
CO TYRONE. "Stand it Willie John. That boy would eat you as sure as my name is Barney Francie McSpalter."
And so we leave Belfast and go home to curl up like a foetus and cry, cry, cry.
And the tears I cried for that Tubby
Would flood you big river
So I'm gonna sit down here until I die!"
It's a strange fact, but dead men are very good singers!
Saturday, 7 May 2011
Ballots and One Word Sentences.
Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which FAILED to give any guidance on how to handle THREE ballot papers and place them correctly in THREE different ballot boxes.
The time is coming, I say, the time is coming, when the voters of Ulster will be expected to go out in the dark of night and pin a tail on their favourite candidate. Jim Allister has already called for it!
I saw an old codger standing confused and bewildered clutching THREE ballot papers in his trembling hand.
"I can't do it!" croaked the old codger. "I left school at nine, we didn't go to university in my day."
"SHUT UP!" he was told. "Its hardly rocket surgery."
The old codger told them what to do with their ballot papers, but they didn't do it, instead they foisted them on to a Millie with a baby in her arms and a fag in her gub.
Tommy awoke from his self-induced stupor and roared,
"What's Mr Coyle up to with his one word sentences? He glares at Gerry from behind the glass and yells,
"Marbles. Hurley. Knickers. Jordie."
And poor Gerry has to try and guess what le-interrupter is talking about."
"Mr Coyle," I said, making a horrible face,"is trying to out-do Harold Pinter. Mr Coyle is writing a book called "Finnegan's Bereavement" which consists entirely of one word sentences."
Tommy's face turned bright red and he roared,
"Well I have one word for Mr Coyle and that word is........!"
"Language Timothy," I said. "Language!"
Tommy, good cat that he is, later said, "SORRY!"
A great show which FAILED to give any guidance on how to handle THREE ballot papers and place them correctly in THREE different ballot boxes.
The time is coming, I say, the time is coming, when the voters of Ulster will be expected to go out in the dark of night and pin a tail on their favourite candidate. Jim Allister has already called for it!
I saw an old codger standing confused and bewildered clutching THREE ballot papers in his trembling hand.
"I can't do it!" croaked the old codger. "I left school at nine, we didn't go to university in my day."
"SHUT UP!" he was told. "Its hardly rocket surgery."
The old codger told them what to do with their ballot papers, but they didn't do it, instead they foisted them on to a Millie with a baby in her arms and a fag in her gub.
Tommy awoke from his self-induced stupor and roared,
"What's Mr Coyle up to with his one word sentences? He glares at Gerry from behind the glass and yells,
"Marbles. Hurley. Knickers. Jordie."
And poor Gerry has to try and guess what le-interrupter is talking about."
"Mr Coyle," I said, making a horrible face,"is trying to out-do Harold Pinter. Mr Coyle is writing a book called "Finnegan's Bereavement" which consists entirely of one word sentences."
Tommy's face turned bright red and he roared,
"Well I have one word for Mr Coyle and that word is........!"
"Language Timothy," I said. "Language!"
Tommy, good cat that he is, later said, "SORRY!"
Friday, 6 May 2011
The Leaders' Debate
Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which FAILED to warn us about the leaders' debate, or Night of the Zombies on BBC One. There they all were:
Margaret Richie of the SDLP,the taming of the shrew.
David Ford, Lord Snooty, above the common fray.
Ant and Dec, Peter Robinson and Martin McGuinness watching each other's back.
Tom Elliott is living proof that the dummy should never leave the ventriloquist and try and make it on its own. Talk about wooden!
"Someone should slap a coat of Roncell on THAT!" said my near-sighted spouse.
It was a night of horror. Nightmarish horror which would send Christoper Lee running for his mammy.
"The reality is," was trotted out like a circus pony.
Short falls. Budget deficit. Working for-change!
First Minister. Second Minister. The orange and green minstrels.
"What about the working man?" yelled a wee tube, who had never worked a day in his life.
"I'll answer that question," said, David "Catweezle" Ford. "The Alliance party will provide jobs for the working man and lamp posts for the working women."
"We need more women in public life!" shrieked Margaret Richie.
"We must provide a level playing field, with mirrors, makeup and copies of Heat magazine on the touch line."
"Let's not get too excited," droned Tom Elliott. "And may I add, the main plank of the UUP party is made of-wood! WOOD!" yelled Tom, "WOOD! The UUP is a stand alone party. No one has his hand up my back working ME!"
"Why do we never see WOMEN coal men?" screamed the shrewish Margaret Richie.
Peter and Martin stood with a wee smile. Everything was coming up roses.
"I hope this podium is made from good Fermanagh WOOD," droned Tom Elliott.
"WOMEN!" shrieked Margaret Richie.
"WOOD!" droned Tom Elliott.
"Well, there you have it ladies and gentlemen" said Mark Carruthers. "The election is on Thursday and I'm sure that you,like me, are looking forward to it."
"WOOD!" droned Tom.
"WOMEN!" shrieked Margaret.
A great show which FAILED to warn us about the leaders' debate, or Night of the Zombies on BBC One. There they all were:
Margaret Richie of the SDLP,the taming of the shrew.
David Ford, Lord Snooty, above the common fray.
Ant and Dec, Peter Robinson and Martin McGuinness watching each other's back.
Tom Elliott is living proof that the dummy should never leave the ventriloquist and try and make it on its own. Talk about wooden!
"Someone should slap a coat of Roncell on THAT!" said my near-sighted spouse.
It was a night of horror. Nightmarish horror which would send Christoper Lee running for his mammy.
"The reality is," was trotted out like a circus pony.
Short falls. Budget deficit. Working for-change!
First Minister. Second Minister. The orange and green minstrels.
"What about the working man?" yelled a wee tube, who had never worked a day in his life.
"I'll answer that question," said, David "Catweezle" Ford. "The Alliance party will provide jobs for the working man and lamp posts for the working women."
"We need more women in public life!" shrieked Margaret Richie.
"We must provide a level playing field, with mirrors, makeup and copies of Heat magazine on the touch line."
"Let's not get too excited," droned Tom Elliott. "And may I add, the main plank of the UUP party is made of-wood! WOOD!" yelled Tom, "WOOD! The UUP is a stand alone party. No one has his hand up my back working ME!"
"Why do we never see WOMEN coal men?" screamed the shrewish Margaret Richie.
Peter and Martin stood with a wee smile. Everything was coming up roses.
"I hope this podium is made from good Fermanagh WOOD," droned Tom Elliott.
"WOMEN!" shrieked Margaret Richie.
"WOOD!" droned Tom Elliott.
"Well, there you have it ladies and gentlemen" said Mark Carruthers. "The election is on Thursday and I'm sure that you,like me, are looking forward to it."
"WOOD!" droned Tom.
"WOMEN!" shrieked Margaret.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
Hoist by Her own Petard
Great show yesterday kid. A great show which averted a street fight between the Belfast winos and members of alcoholics anonymous. There they were, lined up in military formation, when a splinter group from the Legion of Mary yelled,
"Will youse stop your auld fighting! The Gerry Anderson show is on, so it is!
Members of alcoholic anonymous broke off and ran home in a straight line. The winos ran for their cardboard boxes in a curious zig-zag manner which was quite endearing to behold.
I ran down the stairs, leaving a trail of mystery and stupidity behind me and yelled to Tommy my cat,
"We really must get an inside toilet. It is dangerous in the extreme to have to hang out of the upstairs window the way we have to. "
"Are you mad?" roared Tommy. "Toilets don't grow on trees. Toilets cost money! And think of the harm it would do to our rhubarb!"
I was hoist by my own Captain Petard. I do love my Sunday rhubarb and custard.
"In that case," I said, "that gulpin of a cub across the road must stop shooting at my, you know what, with an air rifle."
"It's your own fault," said Tommy, picking up, "The pleasure I get from mooning" by Daniel O'Donnell. "You shouldn't have tempted the lad by drawing a bulls-eye on your arse!"
I found Tubby Nolan lying in the long grass behind Madam George's surgical supplies and massage parlour.
"No more dieting or exercise for me!" yelled the Nemesis of Weight Watchers.
"Soon I enter the,"Fat Boy" clinic in Chingford to have a large, reinforced, industrial, rubber, gastric band fitted to my large intestine. The rubber band will be flown into the George Best airport straight from NASA in a giant B52 cargo plane. When a gang of plumbers and welders have attached the gigantic band, my stomach will shrink to the size of a golf ball and a veritable avalanche of stones and pounds will fall off me, leaving me slim, thin and slender. Say goodbye to Tubby and say hello to Twiggy."
I giggled and said, "A gastric band will reduce more than the size of your stomach."
"You don't mean...!" screamed Tubby.
"Oh yes I do!" I tittered.
"Tubby whipped out his mobile phone and screamed,
"ABORT! Abort the mission. I will not have Anderson and Mark Carruthers laughing at me in the showers. ABORT! ABORT! I say--ABORT!!!"
What a big fuss over something so little!
"Will youse stop your auld fighting! The Gerry Anderson show is on, so it is!
Members of alcoholic anonymous broke off and ran home in a straight line. The winos ran for their cardboard boxes in a curious zig-zag manner which was quite endearing to behold.
I ran down the stairs, leaving a trail of mystery and stupidity behind me and yelled to Tommy my cat,
"We really must get an inside toilet. It is dangerous in the extreme to have to hang out of the upstairs window the way we have to. "
"Are you mad?" roared Tommy. "Toilets don't grow on trees. Toilets cost money! And think of the harm it would do to our rhubarb!"
I was hoist by my own Captain Petard. I do love my Sunday rhubarb and custard.
"In that case," I said, "that gulpin of a cub across the road must stop shooting at my, you know what, with an air rifle."
"It's your own fault," said Tommy, picking up, "The pleasure I get from mooning" by Daniel O'Donnell. "You shouldn't have tempted the lad by drawing a bulls-eye on your arse!"
I found Tubby Nolan lying in the long grass behind Madam George's surgical supplies and massage parlour.
"No more dieting or exercise for me!" yelled the Nemesis of Weight Watchers.
"Soon I enter the,"Fat Boy" clinic in Chingford to have a large, reinforced, industrial, rubber, gastric band fitted to my large intestine. The rubber band will be flown into the George Best airport straight from NASA in a giant B52 cargo plane. When a gang of plumbers and welders have attached the gigantic band, my stomach will shrink to the size of a golf ball and a veritable avalanche of stones and pounds will fall off me, leaving me slim, thin and slender. Say goodbye to Tubby and say hello to Twiggy."
I giggled and said, "A gastric band will reduce more than the size of your stomach."
"You don't mean...!" screamed Tubby.
"Oh yes I do!" I tittered.
"Tubby whipped out his mobile phone and screamed,
"ABORT! Abort the mission. I will not have Anderson and Mark Carruthers laughing at me in the showers. ABORT! ABORT! I say--ABORT!!!"
What a big fuss over something so little!
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
Move On
Great shows last week kid.
Great shows which tackled head on the last great mystery of life. Why is Daniel O'Donnell still releasing CDs?
I looked at Tommy my cat as he sat down to breakfast wearing an imperial purple toga which barely covered his furry bum.
"Tommy," I gushed, "did you see the wedding dress? It was........."
"SILENCE!!!" roared Tommy. "The day of which you speak is over! KAPUT! In the past! We must move on. Let it GO! In the name of all that's roly-poly let it go!
We talked about that 'Thing' for weeks.The planets revolve and the Universe creaks. Why would you speak of some small,incremental,incident in the past which has as much relevance to our life as a bull frog farting in a zinc bucket?"
"Tommy," I said, "your poetic bent is getting more bent each day. Why,in time,you may share a podium with none other than Seamus Heaney."
Tommy sneered and replied coldly,
"I fear I have little in common with the bogman from Stroke City.
Seamus Heaney is a proser, and a poser
And he gets right up my noser."
"Give that cat a Nobel prize!" I yelled, as I chased two kippers,who appeared to have still some life left in them, round the kitchen. I must make a fierce complaint to Phoenix gas.
"Tubby Nolan," said Tommy, taking a sip of finely blended Kesh coffee, "made a right fool of himself at the Belfast marathon. There he was, on the starting line, before the race began, down on the broad of his back surrounded by medics, oxygen bottles, heart defibrillators and undertakers."
"Was the lad nobbled?" I shrieked. "Were his nobblers interfered with? Did Gerry Anderson put a Micky Finn in the lad's liquid lard?"
"All I know," said Tommy. "is the oval one told the doctor he was feeling fine, but suddenly he came over all fat."
"Where is he?" I screamed. "Take me to him. I should be by his side, emptying his brow and mopping his bedpan."
"I don't know where he is," said Tommy. "They took him away on the back of a low-loader with a police escort."
"Phone all the hospitals!" I yelled. "Ask them if a fat boy is lying on four trolleys in the corridor."
Silly me, he was at home eating his way through a mountain of crisps.
The only way to get any momentum out of Tubby Nolan is to roll him down a steep hill!
ATTENTION ALL GARDENERS! PHONE TUBBY NOLAN TODAY AND HE WILL COME ROUND AND ROLL YOUR LAWN!
Great shows which tackled head on the last great mystery of life. Why is Daniel O'Donnell still releasing CDs?
I looked at Tommy my cat as he sat down to breakfast wearing an imperial purple toga which barely covered his furry bum.
"Tommy," I gushed, "did you see the wedding dress? It was........."
"SILENCE!!!" roared Tommy. "The day of which you speak is over! KAPUT! In the past! We must move on. Let it GO! In the name of all that's roly-poly let it go!
We talked about that 'Thing' for weeks.The planets revolve and the Universe creaks. Why would you speak of some small,incremental,incident in the past which has as much relevance to our life as a bull frog farting in a zinc bucket?"
"Tommy," I said, "your poetic bent is getting more bent each day. Why,in time,you may share a podium with none other than Seamus Heaney."
Tommy sneered and replied coldly,
"I fear I have little in common with the bogman from Stroke City.
Seamus Heaney is a proser, and a poser
And he gets right up my noser."
"Give that cat a Nobel prize!" I yelled, as I chased two kippers,who appeared to have still some life left in them, round the kitchen. I must make a fierce complaint to Phoenix gas.
"Tubby Nolan," said Tommy, taking a sip of finely blended Kesh coffee, "made a right fool of himself at the Belfast marathon. There he was, on the starting line, before the race began, down on the broad of his back surrounded by medics, oxygen bottles, heart defibrillators and undertakers."
"Was the lad nobbled?" I shrieked. "Were his nobblers interfered with? Did Gerry Anderson put a Micky Finn in the lad's liquid lard?"
"All I know," said Tommy. "is the oval one told the doctor he was feeling fine, but suddenly he came over all fat."
"Where is he?" I screamed. "Take me to him. I should be by his side, emptying his brow and mopping his bedpan."
"I don't know where he is," said Tommy. "They took him away on the back of a low-loader with a police escort."
"Phone all the hospitals!" I yelled. "Ask them if a fat boy is lying on four trolleys in the corridor."
Silly me, he was at home eating his way through a mountain of crisps.
The only way to get any momentum out of Tubby Nolan is to roll him down a steep hill!
ATTENTION ALL GARDENERS! PHONE TUBBY NOLAN TODAY AND HE WILL COME ROUND AND ROLL YOUR LAWN!
Monday, 2 May 2011
Easing Pre Nuptial Nerves
Great show yesterday kid.
A great show which greatly eased the pre-nuptial nerves in Buckingham palace.
"That's my friend Gerry, so it is," said the Queen."I had him over for tea and bikkies, so I did. What a lovely man he is, so he is, so cultured, so elegant, so very, very fond of vodka."
"But what does he DO?" roared Prince Phillip. "What does he DO? I said to him, what do you do?
He looked at his Hopalong Cassidy watch and said,
"It's half past nine your highness." Gormless if you ask me, just like number one son Charles."
"Tommy cat esquire," I yelled,
"Ja mein Fuhrer," roared Tommy.
"Tomorrow morning on the stroke of eight o'clock I expect to see you sitting bolt upright on a straight-backed chair wearing a swallow-tailed coat like Groucho Marx."
"Ja mein Fuhrer," yelled Tommy. "Permission pleeze to wear my jack boots."
"Nein, Nein, Nein!" I yelled. "You will wear your patent,leather, black shoes. The same shoes you wear when we watch, Strictly Come Dancing. Now when we first see the bride's dress we must, Ooh and Aah. So let's practise our Oohs and Aahs." Tommy and I clasped our hands to our face, opened our eyes wide and went,
"OOH! AAH! OOH! AAH!"
"What a wunderbar hockzeitskleid* (wedding dress*), shrieked Tommy.
"Ooh, Aah, Master McGraw."
"Next comes the exchange of rings!" I yelled.
At this point we both fall to the floor together and go into a fit of blubbering, sobbing, weeping, crying and keening. We then turn towards each other and sob, "OH, I do love a wedding!"
Then the happy couple leave the Cathedral. We leap to our feet, sing two verses of God save the Queen, Rule Britannia and Knees up Mother Brown."
"And what do we do then?" asked Tommy.
"Nothing!" I replied.
"The wedding is over! We have a light lunch consisting of black pepper, salad and boiled blubber and then turn over to RTE and watch Podge and Rodge."
"I like Podge and Rodge," said Tommy. "They are indeed the Hibernian Morecambe and Wise."
I concurred, swept it under the carpet and hung by the heels from the ceiling yelling,
"What do you mean funny? I'm a clown? I amuse you?
What the flipping heck is so funny about ME?"
Yeh, Podge and Rodge are Goodfellows!
A great show which greatly eased the pre-nuptial nerves in Buckingham palace.
"That's my friend Gerry, so it is," said the Queen."I had him over for tea and bikkies, so I did. What a lovely man he is, so he is, so cultured, so elegant, so very, very fond of vodka."
"But what does he DO?" roared Prince Phillip. "What does he DO? I said to him, what do you do?
He looked at his Hopalong Cassidy watch and said,
"It's half past nine your highness." Gormless if you ask me, just like number one son Charles."
"Tommy cat esquire," I yelled,
"Ja mein Fuhrer," roared Tommy.
"Tomorrow morning on the stroke of eight o'clock I expect to see you sitting bolt upright on a straight-backed chair wearing a swallow-tailed coat like Groucho Marx."
"Ja mein Fuhrer," yelled Tommy. "Permission pleeze to wear my jack boots."
"Nein, Nein, Nein!" I yelled. "You will wear your patent,leather, black shoes. The same shoes you wear when we watch, Strictly Come Dancing. Now when we first see the bride's dress we must, Ooh and Aah. So let's practise our Oohs and Aahs." Tommy and I clasped our hands to our face, opened our eyes wide and went,
"OOH! AAH! OOH! AAH!"
"What a wunderbar hockzeitskleid* (wedding dress*), shrieked Tommy.
"Ooh, Aah, Master McGraw."
"Next comes the exchange of rings!" I yelled.
At this point we both fall to the floor together and go into a fit of blubbering, sobbing, weeping, crying and keening. We then turn towards each other and sob, "OH, I do love a wedding!"
Then the happy couple leave the Cathedral. We leap to our feet, sing two verses of God save the Queen, Rule Britannia and Knees up Mother Brown."
"And what do we do then?" asked Tommy.
"Nothing!" I replied.
"The wedding is over! We have a light lunch consisting of black pepper, salad and boiled blubber and then turn over to RTE and watch Podge and Rodge."
"I like Podge and Rodge," said Tommy. "They are indeed the Hibernian Morecambe and Wise."
I concurred, swept it under the carpet and hung by the heels from the ceiling yelling,
"What do you mean funny? I'm a clown? I amuse you?
What the flipping heck is so funny about ME?"
Yeh, Podge and Rodge are Goodfellows!
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